


will you stay?

by justrunamok



Category: Narcos (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, F/M, Female Reader, Implied/Referenced Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-18
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-07 21:00:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26524096
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justrunamok/pseuds/justrunamok
Summary: he is something to you, a long-gone taste balanced on the tip of your tongue. you are something to him, a bear's winter hoard.
Relationships: Horacio Carrillo/Female Reader, Horacio Carrillo/Reader, Horacio Carrillo/You
Kudos: 22





	1. you keep walking (down the street)

It started with firecrackers dancing under your skin as his roaming lips lit the fuse and you were naively confident in your ability to remain unattached. Untethered to this man who cupped your jaw with calloused palms, so gentle in his exploration of your body. It was not your first time bringing someone home to keep you company, you knew how it worked and you knew it well. **  
**

_Naive._

If he asked what had pushed you over the edge, falling for him as he looked on with pity, you wouldn’t have been able to pinpoint just one thing. No, it was the amalgamation of it all, the mix of small actions that had damned you so easily. 

Perhaps, it was his mouth. Mind you, this mess all started because of the words tumbling sweetly from that mouth, a single undertone of desperation as he called out to you as you walked out of the bar. It could have been the sounds you wrenched out of him on those nights he showed up at your door, glorious moans and gasps that you quite literally lapped up. Or, more likely, the flow of sugared praise he murmured into the crown of your head, cloaking you in it as you collapsed onto the broad expanse of his chest. 

Perhaps, it was his touch. It never failed to blow your mind, how careful he was with those hands, using just enough pressure to cause goosebumps, but never bruises. it had taken your explicit requests- _touch me harder, Horacio_ \- for him to even consider leaving you with physical remnants of your pleasure to admire in the morning. No one could blame you for wanting to remember, not when you were never given the opportunity to be held by those same arms all through the night.

Perhaps, it was the way he looked at you. He might leave as quickly as he had come knocking on your door, but it was that constant, layered gaze that made you think that maybe, _just maybe_ , he felt it too. The magnetic pull that grew tense and painful every time you watched him go. His eyes would flicker up at you, head cradled between the soft of your thighs as he brought you to your peak, and the intensity in them always had you writhing. No one had looked at you like that before, so loaded with undecipherable messages, it left you reeling.

It took time to scrounge up the shreds of your courage to ask him, months of struggling to remain, _seem_ impartial before you crumbled.

There was precious little that you hated more than seeing him extract himself from your grasp and pull on his clothes. You were well-acquainted with it, the burn behind your eyelids as you watched him button up his shirt and head for the door, the plush mattress suddenly unforgiving to your exposed skin.

Tonight had been harder than it usually was. You wanted so badly to keep him for more than a few hours a night, the longing hounded you during the days, an unwelcome guest in your life. Even when you exhaled in relief at his _can i come in?_ it was there, reminding you that he was not here to stay, that you were foolish for being so happy when you knew he would crush you by leaving. Horacio took so much liberty to handle you softly but did not realize that he left you hurting anyway.

The words were spoken before you had the time to think. “Must you always leave?“ 

Such a bold question for someone who had no leverage, no qualities that would hold ground at the negotiating table. There is a deep inhale of air that precedes his answer, and you feel the rocks drop in your stomach. When he looks at you, you see that he knows exactly what you are asking of him.

“I will not stay, _hermosa_.”

It was both an answer that you expected and one that was a powerful blow to your chest. Deep down, you knew that a yes was impossible, perhaps you were undeserving of one, but to hear him say that _he would not?_ That his rejection was a willful decision and not an inevitable product of his line of work or some other dream you concocted, it shattered the shoddy remains of your bravery. He would not be with you, he did not want to. 

_He does not want you, fool._

What a hysterically sad image you must paint, sprawled naked across your pillows, slowly curling into yourself at the impact of Horacio’s words as he stands at the foot of the bed, fully-dressed and straight-backed. 

You do not watch him leave, scrunching your eyes shut because you cannot take much more, the mere sound of him turning has you breaking apart in the silence. 

And yet, your mouth betrays you.

“Could you have loved me like I do you, Horacio?” Your voice is a wispy thing, drained and so very tired.

The world seems to fall silent, each of God’s creatures wanting to hear the response to your question that was more like a confession. 

The door slams and you get your answer.


	2. now you come home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> the thing with layers is they take time.

You wait for his knocks to come, you wait for the knot of tension in your stomach to loosen when he asks for your permission to come in. 

They don’t. Your nights remain uninterrupted, silent as your sheets lose his musk. 

So you cry and crumple into two, then you stitch yourself back together, threads no thicker than a hair’s width connecting ligament to bone. At first, your loathing is turned inward, focused on your vulnerability, your incessant need to love even when the intensity of what you feel drives people out of your door. Sluggishly, over bleary mornings where you force yourself to live and nights where your will is weakest, the hate fizzles out.

You realize, in the days you scour yourself for a spot to put the blame, that your love is not at fault, you are not at fault. It is not a crime to feel and to want, it is a gift. Wouldn’t a life void of compassion and desire be so very grey? No, you are not to blame, you do not know who is, _but it is not you._

It takes months for you to replace the flimsy stitches with stronger ones, months for your wound to heal. But the months pass, and you do heal. Slowly, you regain the rays of sunlight that Horacio had taken from the well of your heart and you shine proudly. Of course, a part of you still stings when you think of how you will always be a giver, but is it still not a miracle? When the gaping hole that a bullet leaves behind turns into shiny, pale tissue? 

The children who scream your name every morning save you unknowingly, their innocent excitement and easy trust remind you that there is an abundance of beauty to be found in the world, you need not depend on one singular person to show them to you. So you teach and you support and you care. There is a peculiar therapy in being the centerpiece of a child’s artwork, a blazing pride at having the privilege of moulding these lights and watching them grow. 

You hear his name over the radio sometimes, and you wonder how he fares. Those are the only times you are reminded of the soft love you hold in your chest. 

Then the music comes on and you forget. 

* * *

Over the years, Horacio sees you in the strangers that accompany him through his nights. There is always something about them that is similar to you, no matter how hard he tries to pick polar opposites. Once, it was the slow drag of their eyes as he undressed, and another time, the press of their palm against his chest as they took their pleasure from him. Meaningless little things that his mind could not separate from his memory of you. 

The chase for Escobar is akin to Dante’s hell, circle upon circle of destruction and madness. There are times when the muck of it all seems to rise to his neck, suffocating, and he thinks of you. Would you have made it easier to bear, had you been given the chance you pleaded for?

He knows it was the right call, walking out your door that night and never coming back, you did not belong in a life like his, and him yours. He would have tainted the pastel shades of your home with red with his presence ~~and his love.~~

But that certainty does not stop him from wanting, longing desperately to return to your home where everything was softer. It does not stop him from thinking of you, of how the day’s breeze would have made you sigh, of how you might look curled into his side on a rainy night. 

So, feverishly, he leads the hunting party, exhausting every last resource and pissing off every filthy politician until Escobar is between his jaws. 

Finally, bones crunch and it’s over. Only then, does he allow himself more than meager thoughts of you. 

Horacio seeks you out at the place he started it all. The country is celebrating and the bars are packed with people, high on relief. It is no surprise to him that your grin and laughter does more to light up the bar than the gaudy light fixtures. You look resplendent and he _aches._

He doesn’t know how you will receive him, there is no ego that assures him of your welcome, he could never deserve it. He is here only to be sure you do not want him and to see you one last time. All too soon, your eyes fall on him from over the heads of the crowd and anxiety lances through his body, every limb stiff with anticipation. 

The air in his lungs disappear when your lips curve gently upwards, the smallest of movements rendering him breathless. He watches you say your goodbyes to friends and something in him is struck dumb with disbelief and hope as you maneuver your way to him.

Throughout the years, he questioned if it was the yearning and the distance that had painted you in such an ethereal light. The answer is no, you are just as beautiful as the pictures of you in his head, more so when you stand three feet away.

“Hello, Horacio,” you say in a voice so warm, it brings a thickness to his throat. “Will you come home with me?”

He remembers nothing in between his nod and his arrival at your door. The ball is in your park now, he thinks, whatever that happens tonight will be initiated by you. If this ends in him being asked to leave and never come back, then by God, he’ll do it. Horacio promises himself this, knowing he has no right to ask for more than his share of your attention. 

The interior of your home is the same, albeit with more framed art of your students than he recalls. You sigh when you sink into the couch, visibly relieved at being home for the night, and his breathlessness comes again when you look up at the stranger who is so much more. Your gentle smile is gone when you speak, a blunt question cutting through the years apart. 

“What am I to you, Horacio?” There is a hard set to your tone, and he knows that the burgeoning hope in his chest was a risk. “You have always looked at me like that, yet you left.” You gesture at him vaguely and suddenly, Horacio is curious.

His voice is low and quiet. “How do I look at you, _mi amor_?” The endearment too is a risk, but for the first time in years, you are in front of him, so he takes the leap.

Your eyes shutter with a hurt that he regrets. “Do not call me that if you do not mean to stay.” You let the silence set in as you rise from your seat and face him. “You look at me like you would fall at my feet if I asked.”

“ _Are_ you asking, _mi amor_?” He knows you understand when your eyes widen.

Slowly, like you doubt his conviction, you step forward until you feel the puff of Horacio’s exhales against your face. 

Raising a tentative palm to cup his face, you whisper, “I only ask you to stay.”

There it is again, that molten gaze you agonized for so long over, so complex you do not understand it years later. This is not a moment where eye contact can be broken, everything feels so fragile that even a split-second dart of the eyes could break it. 

So nothing shields you from the way Horacio’s layered stare bores into you as he leans into your touch like a stranded man being offered rescue. 

“As long as you want me.” comes his response and the small corner of your heart that holds your love for him blooms.

The warm press of his lips against yours feels like coming home. 

For the both of you.


End file.
